


Bury pearls in the country

by holograms



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: F/F, Kissing, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: Hélène understands why her brother wants to take Natasha — she's beautiful, young, ripe for the taking.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Your thoughts about _Charming_ are exactly the same as mine. I hope you enjoy!

Hélène understands why her brother wants to take Natasha — she's beautiful, young, ripe for the taking. She's engaged, sure, but not taken _yet_ (and _after_ doesn't make a difference either, Hélène thinks to herself, smiling).  
  
"Charming," Hélène says, and _oh_ , Natasha blushes, a true measure of modesty. Shrinks into herself, trying to hide her curves that are covered by her scant undergarments, as though she hadn't realized she was dressed as such until Hélène brought attention to it.  
  
Hélène could hate her, hate this beautiful thing wrapped up in silk in lace and purity; Natasha has all the opportunity in the world, and Hélène believes there's something to ruining a beautiful thing. Crumbling rose petals. Butchering a sonata. Destroying it so nobody can enjoy it, and Hélène could, she could destroy Natasha —  
  
But.  
  
"I could teach you," Hélène tells Natasha, promises her. Low for only her to hear, leaning in to whisper in her ear. Their cheeks brush. When Hélène pulls away (because she is the one in control of this), Natasha meets her eyes and she's _curious_ and, well. That's all it takes.  
  
Hélène waves her hand at the servants. "Leave us be."  
  
Alone now, Natasha finds her voice: "What? What — what could you teach me?"  
  
So many things. How not to have your life dictated by foolish men. How to preserve your beauty. How to _use_ your beauty, and direct the lives of foolish men instead.  
  
"I could teach you how to love," Hélène says, because she knows that's what Natasha wants to hear, but what Hélène really wants to teach her is _lust_. She sees it in Natasha, simmering, but the poor girl doesn't understand it. That's not her fault, however — it gets neglected for the other, perpetuated by men to trick women into being devoted.  
  
"I know about love," Natasha replies, much too fast, like it's something that's been practiced. Ready. Hélène shushes her, runs her hand down Natasha's bare, delicate arm. Natasha insists again that she knows love, but with less fire this time, and—  
  
That's when Hélène decides.  
  
It had been a favor for her brother, but now it's a game of her own. Anatole will forgive her, her dear brother, because he knows how she wants — and she wants this prize before anyone else.    
  
"There's a ball at my house tonight," Hélène says. "You must come." She mentions her brother, and Natasha blushes again. Ah.  
  
Further, "My brother is a good lover." Testimonial.  
  
Natasha gasps. "Oh! It isn't like that with us, I am—"  
  
"Engaged," Hélène finishes. "I know." She runs her hands down Natasha's sides. "A shame, that not everyone can cherish your beauty."  
  
Natasha blinks, but does not push away Hélène's touch.  
  
"Thank you. That means a lot coming from you. You're so—" Natasha is at a loss for words. She looks between them; at Hélène, then down at herself, then back to Hélène. "Stunning."  
  
"You lovely thing," Hélène says, and she _takes_ — leans in, kisses Natasha chastely on the mouth.

Nothing too much at first that could be mistaken as anything other than compassion between two women, but then again, it is compassion between two women, and Natasha lets out a soft gasp, hand reaching up to clutch Hélène's arm and her eyes flutter shut and Hélène kisses her again, deeper, searching.

"See?" Hélène asks, mumbling against Natasha's lips. "Even I cannot resist."  
  
Natasha pulls away, lips kiss-bitten red. Touches them, as though she's been burned.  
  
"What about Pierre?" Natasha asks, quiet. Hélène laughs — the girl must know what everyone says about the relations between herself and her husband, what they say about _her._  However, the most amusing thing is that's the first Natasha has to comment on.  
  
"What about him?" Hélène asks. Plants a kiss on Natasha's neck, and Natasha tilts her head accordingly; good girl, she's learning. "We could both be dancing in front of him, nude, and he wouldn't notice. Too interested in his studies."  
  
Natasha suppresses a laugh — polite — but shudders when Hélène trails kisses down her neck. Over her throat. On her pulse.

"Does he touch you like this?" Natasha asks, breathy. "As husbands do?"  
  
Hélène continues, kissing down down down, to where Natasha's breasts spill out of her top.  
  
"No, he's never touched me like this," Hélène says, her eyes flitting up to Natasha's. "But then again, most men don't. They don't know how to worship—"  
  
Hélène runs her thumb over Natasha's breast through silk fabric, rubs until her nipple hardens and the moan that is drawn from Natasha is so beautiful, and — Hélène wants to give her everything good before someone can tarnish her, stomp out her beauty; Hélène could tell that Natasha is not as resilient as herself and could be easily ruined.  
  
She gently pushes Natasha's top down, slipping straps off her shoulders, until she reveals her breasts; Natasha shudders as Hélène cups them in her hands.

"Gorgeous," Hélène mumbles and dips her head down to kiss Natasha's pert nipples, giving attention to one at a time, flicks her tongue against them, sucks — takes Natasha apart with her mouth on her. She smiles against Natasha's skin when Natasha's knees buckle and puts her hand to Hélène's neck, whines out, " _Hélène."_  
  
"Don't you deserve this?" Hélène asks. "Someone must attend to you. Appreciate you." She creeps her fingers into Natasha's clothes, curls her fingers against her sex and feels how wet she is — Natasha lets out an _ah_!, like she's surprised.  
  
"There's so much you don't know," Hélène says, and she drags her fingers away, doesn't look away as she sucks the taste of Natasha off her fingers. Sweet.  
  
Natasha rights her clothes, but already she looks more confident.  
  
"Will you also be at the ball?" she asks. Hopeful.  
  
"It's at my house, my charmer," Hélène says, teasing. Touches Natasha's lips with her fingertips. "I hope to see you there."  
  
"I will come."

 

  
  
Her brother finds Natasha first, the overeager idiot who's only thinking with what's in his pants. Hélène smooths down her dress, waits. Doesn't let him suspect anything, says, _yes, she's wonderful_ while he moons over her. Lets him think he has a chance.  
  
Natasha finds her, later.  
  
Flushed, panicking — Natasha rambles about Anatole and what he's done and what it all must mean — but Hélène takes her arm and whispers, "follow me," and takes her to her private room, gives her wine to calm her nerves.  
  
"He kissed me," Natasha says, and Hélène sits next to her and holds her hand. Patient. Natasha continues, "He kissed me and I— I don't know." Her eyes glitter with tears. "I wanted to say..."  
  
Her voice trails off, looks away. Ashamed. Conflicted.   
  
Hélène takes Natasha's chin, has Natasha look at her, says calmly—  
  
"What do you wish to say, my charmer?"  
  
Natasha kisses her, ardently.  
  
 

 

  
They leave for Poland that night, unsuspected.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for dragging Pierre


End file.
